


Abjection.

by anniesburg



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Burn victim vaun, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Murder, Strigoi Biology, Vaun lives bitch, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 06:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Very few people that Vaun encounters live to tell about it, the ones that do never see him again. Except in this case.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this spiralled out of control really quickly.

Standing between you and a stranger is a monster wearing your boyfriend’s face. His contorted mouth bleeds into a rubbed-red throat. His eyes, unblinking except for a translucent membrane shutting occasionally stare into you with a twisted mockery of the warmth they once had. He twitches like a dead thing trying so hard to cling to life, it breaks your heart. 

He snarls, head lolling back and forth between you and the stranger. The woman is at the end of the alleyway, her eyes are wide and so full of fear. Your boyfriend shivers and something that isn’t his tongue pokes out of his mouth. The woman lets out a gasp of fear and he turns his head so quickly you expect to hear a cracking sound.

Your stomach tight, you step back. Wrong move. Your foot brushes a pebble and his neck again whips around. He glares, growls and shifts closer to you. He stays in the shadows, the light from the setting sun glaring overhead and leaving an increasingly larger space for him to stand. 

He can’t step into the light, you found that out when he did. His first steps into realizing what he’s become were painful, the sun he used to love burning him now. Breathing is no longer required but he still wheezes and huffs grotesquely. 

“Go!” you shout to the woman and the noise makes him flinch.

She asked if he was sick when she saw you with your back against the wall of an alley, his beady eyes glaring from the darkness. He was so hot, was complaining about it and finally agreed to go to the walk-in clinic. He collapsed before you got there, needing to be rushed to the hospital. You received bad news from the doctor, he was comatose.

Existing in nearly a fog, you stayed in your apartment for a full day. Too risky for you to be present, the doctors warned you. There’s a virus going around right now. You hadn’t the emotional capacity to argue. 

You surely don’t have the emotional capacity for this.

“Just go!” her eyes widen further, the crows feet on the outer corners deepening. She looks at the lunging creature, out of range of his tongue and without another glance at you, she runs away.

Now alone, the thing twists his head back towards you. The tongue in its mouth darts out again, longer this time and you take several steps back. He hisses, withdrawing. 

You look behind you, trapped by the chainlink fence. 

He found you, not the other way around. You finally went to see him, heading for the subway and mentally damning the express order to stay away. You passed by the same alley you did when he collapsed, could nearly hear his laboured breathing and the cracking of his neck. 

Looking, not expecting to see anyone, you nearly shrieked when you saw your boyfriend standing in the shadows. 

Turning towards the fence, you thread your fingers through the holes. You could climb this, it’ll be just like high school. Sticking the toe of your shoe into the grating, you turn when you hear a noise.

He was silent when you approached him, looking grim and blood spattered. You didn’t realize in that moment, but the only reason he let you live was because you were in sunshine and he was not. He became more agitated the closer you stepped and, not realizing the danger, you placed him between yourself and your escape route.

The thing that looks like the man you love is making more noise than just wheezing now, and you look at him with something like abject horror. 

“ _Ba…_ ” he says. His voice scuttles up your back like a crab. “ _Ba…by_.” you can’t help it, the sound that leaves your mouth is something like a cry and you whip around and start to climb. 

The blood that cakes his hospital gown isn’t his own, his hair is thinning at the root. His eyes— they’re not human. He’s had pneumonia and you’ve never seen him so pale. 

With every ticking minute the shadows get closer, his tongue can extend father. There’s only a little bit of daylight left in the alley. Something’s wrong, _worse_ than wrong and you have to leave.  

He seems to realize that as you do and responds with a blood-curdling screech. He sounds like a bird, some sort of bizarre bird choking on its tongue. Your heart thundering in your chest, you pull yourself up the fence. The metal digs into your hands.

You grab the metal bar extending from wall to brick wall, pulling yourself up. Putting one leg over the side, you turn back and see him hunched over and close to the ground. He’s snarling like an animal, staring at you and twitching. Your other leg on the opposite side of the fence doesn’t stay there long, and you’re jumping off before you have time to be afraid of the height.

The fall is painful but not life-threatening. The air in your lungs is forced out but otherwise you’re unharmed. Standing, shaking, you don’t look back as you dart off down the alleyway. 

There’s a door not far from the end of the alley and with the last of the fading light, you throw it open and force your way in. 

You’re in a hallway that extends far on either side of you before jutting forward and making space for a box-shaped courtyard in the centre. Apartments line the walls but it’s so dark in here. Madly dashing towards the first door you see, you frantically knock.

There’s no answer and you rush to the second. _Still nothing_ , what the hell is going on? You press your ear to the door, hearing the sound of the television and footsteps now. You try the handle and gasp lightly when you find it turns. 

You open the door to the apartment, the heat pushes out of the room like an intense wave. There’s a clicking sound, a grunting sound and you hear teeth gnashing. From the kitchen and into the foyer steps the twitching figure of a pale, dark-eyed old woman. Her eyes are as red as your throat.

The scream that bubbles in your throat doesn’t have a chance to be heard. You’re running away too quickly, the sound of something wet and squelching trailing just behind. The only hope you have is the sliver of sun in the centre of the courtyard. 

The door outside again isn’t far, just a few feet away. Darting off down the hall you find the way in and press yourself against the far, still-lit wall. There’s enough sunshine to keep that tongue at bay, and you turn to see it hideously extended.

It gets close to you, so very close that you can feel the radiating heat nearly burn your cheeks. That stifled scream tears loose from your throat this time, again and again at a devastating pitch. The stinger is inches from your face, you turn your head. Give it just a few more minutes and—

There’s a swishing sound and a soft _snap_  that has you looking back towards the danger. 

Standing in the doorway, armed with a heavy gun is a man in full tactical gear. His hood is pulled up over his head and, coupled with the blinding last rays of day, his face is all but a mystery to you. 

Sagging against the wall, you let out a shuddering gasp and close your eyes tightly again. When you open them, the man clad in black —as well as four others with obscured faces— stands at the edge of the sunshine. 

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” he asks. His voice sounds like its been played through some short of machine, robotic and distorted but not untrustworthy. His gaze drops. 

Your eyes follow his and your gasp is close to horrified at the sight of the crumpled body. The old woman lies dead, her tongue extended and grim-looking. A spike juts out of the back of her skull, milk-white fluid seeping from the edges. In the sun, she burns. Her white skin turns charred and black.

“Did they?” he asks again, looking up.

“No.” you reply. The man nods.

“Good, come here.” you press yourself flatter against the wall, your chin rising in defiance. 

“Come into the light.” the tone of your voice borders on suspicious, the fear in your eyes plain. The man takes one hand off his gun, holds it up like a surrender and steps into the sunlight. You still can’t see his face. “Take off your hood— _please_.” he shakes his head.

“I can’t do that.” he says. You furrow your brows. He looks down at the body again. 

“Who the hell are you?” you ask, voice cracking and head swimming. He can speak, he isn’t trying to kill you but the panic is still too close. Thankfully, he keeps his distance. 

“Someone who isn’t going to hurt you.” he replies and it unsettles you somewhat. You’ve been attacked by a total stranger and someone you’ve known for years with barely five minutes of space in-between. _Don’t trust him_ , you think. _You can’t trust him_.

He holds out his hand to you, straightening his back. At this angle, you can make out his features a bit better. He’s as pale as the dead woman was, with beady eyes shining and glinting. They’re intelligent eyes, not fogged with hunger or hatred. 

His cheekbones are sharp, jagged. He looks as if he carries exhaustion with him, something sleep won’t shake. After a moment of hesitation, you take his hand. He gives you balance enough to walk away from the light and into the swell of shadows. 

“Now, are you sure you’re not injured?” he asks again, looking you up and down when you’re both away from the sun. The man lowers his hood as he speaks, just as you asked. _A show of faith_ , you think as you look at him. 

His ears are pointed at the tips, foreign to your eyes and your mouth falls open. He has no hair, spiderwebs of gray veins run wild over his face. The line of his mouth extends beyond his lips.

“Not a scratch.” you say, softly. You look at him with intense curiosity, disgust stifled now that you’re able to observe him up-close. His eyes dart over your face, inspecting you just as much as you do him. 

“Okay, and which apartment did she come from?” you rattle off the number, shocked you could remember but the main identifying factor is the flung-open door. The man motions to two of the human-shaped shadows behind him. They walk off. “And you live here?” you shake your head.

“I was hiding from another one of those—” you look to the body again. “ _things_.” a shudder wracks your shoulders and you drop your eyes.

“Another one? Where?” you jerk your head towards the door. 

“In the alleyway behind the building. I was going to see my boyfriend in hospital but he wasn’t— he was there and soaked in blood and—” the noise you make sounds close to a sob. 

“They target loved ones,” he says as if explaining a complex concept to an idiot. There’s a softness to his tone that surprises you. “I’m sorry for you loss.” you squeeze your eyes shut.

“He’s not dead.” you say, your voice clouded with something very similar to a desire for everything to stop for a minute. Monsters are real, one of them is currently living in someone you know. A stranger tried to murder you. 

“He is,” the man replies, smooth tone turning up near the end like a statement of fact. “and we’re going to need you to show us where he is. Night’s coming.” you exhale slowly.

“You’re going to kill him?” 

“Put him down.” the man replies. It’s a punch in the stomach, it’s all so clinical. He doesn’t have rabies. 

“What’s happened to him?” you say, voice suddenly filled with the anger that plagues all people ignorant. He seems to consider how much he can say before speaking.

“Strigoi,” he says and your confused expression leads him to add, “vampires. I wouldn’t recommend getting within six feet.” you shake your head in disbelief.

“Vampires aren’t real,” the look he gives you is nothing short of sarcastically amused. You feel your face flush with embarrassment. “you’re one? And you’re not eating me?” he shakes his head.

“And I have no intention to. If I wanted you to die, well,” he peers around you, looking towards the body he’s left behind. You get the message. Silence persists and you realize the man is still waiting for you to give him the information.

“He’s— he _was_ in the alley behind the building. Behind a fence. I’ll show you.” the two other men clad in tactical gear have returned and you brush passed the one who’s face you can see. He follows close at your side. Like the old woman, you can feel the heat coming off him in waves. 

Your boyfriend is pressed to the chainlink fence when you see him, still hungry and twitching. Maybe it is rabies, you consider, some sort of terrible disease that infected him at the hospital. He looks up and snarls when he sees you.

Unceremoniously, the man at your side pushes you behind him, holding his arm out and lifting his gun. 

“Wait!” you exclaim, reaching up and putting your hands on his warm shoulder. You’re afraid, so afraid that this is your last chance to prove that what’s been done can be undone. “You can’t help him? If we get him to a doctor—” 

“No doctor can cure that. It’s a virus, it only spreads.” he says, his shoulder tenses under your hand. 

“But you—” the man turns and looks at you with murderous rage in his eyes.

“Different strain.” he grumbles. His gaze is only called away by the sound of rudimentary, hissing speech.

“ _Bab…y, baby, baby, baby, baby_.” the vampire on the other side of the fence babbles and you flinch. You drop your eyes but not your hand. Suddenly you’re reminded of that twisting fear, that unease in your chest when you escaped him the first time.

“Fine,” you say to the man with the gun’s surprise. “kill him, I can’t listen to that.” your eyes stay fixated on the dirty ground. 

Swish, _snap_ , your boyfriend is dead, shot through the bars. You drop your hand and heave a shaky sigh. 

“Let’s move out.” the man speaks up after a moment. He doesn’t turn to you, just walks forward towards the fence and pushes the limp body off of it. 

“Sir,” you begin, lifting your head.

“Vaun.” he cuts you off. You nod.

“Thank you for saving me, Vaun.” he holds his hand out instead of responding. You take it and he helps you over the fence, pulling you towards the entrance to the alley and away from the body. 

“Keep away from him. Go home, you don’t want to find out how the virus spreads.” after a tense moment, you nod. “Stay safe.”

“You too.” you say before you can stop yourself. His odd mouth parts and reveals a row of pointed teeth. He says nothing more, walking past you to the black car parked just up the street. 

Night’s fallen and it’s inky blackness is is more expansive than it’s ever seemed. The darkness, you realize as you watch Vaun leave, is no longer familiar to you.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t have a heart any more, just a mass that’s shrivelled and pale. A breeding ground for worms, a machine that would have killed a living human being. Nevertheless there’s a lurching sensation, graceless and poisonous when he sees you sink a silver hunting knife into a strigoi’s eye.

You live. You toss your hair and you don’t seem surprised to see him.

His unlife has a similarity sometimes to a minecart travelling through some dark and distant cave. It stops every once in a while and people die, he usually doesn’t meet the survivors again. New York’s a big place but evidently not that big. Your eyes glitter like gold but not enough to distract him, he fires a silver dart from the mouth of his gun into an advancing monster. It crumples like a paper crane in water. 

He’s seen you in the fading light of sun but never in the fullness of the night. Humans fear the dark for a reason, they fall into its trap and pensive calm but you rise and thrive. You’re quick on your feet and not afraid to kill. A stinger darts out at you and you dodge it. With your knife you cut away the infection until you’re stepping over limbs. You dodge the worms like some kind of half-crazed dance and lean against a streep lamp.

Your face beneath the upward light is cast in harsh shadow. Perhaps it overplays your exhaustion but the circles under your eyes are unmistakable.

“Hello, Vaun. I would say we have to stop meeting like this,” you begin, sounding breathless and haughty. Vaun lowers his gun and has to stop himself from motioning for you to keep away from the worms more than you already are. “but I think this is better than last time.”

At that, the only vampire you haven’t hacked to pieces makes a noise like a dry laugh. It’s brief and unsettling, like him. 

“You think this is an improvement?” he shakes his head like he doesn’t know what else to say. You shrug, flick your knife and a worm falls to the ground. He makes a noise of concern you don’t hear, you’re too busy walking towards him and out of danger. 

He dwarfs you, looming over in his black tactical gear and red hood. His eyes are dark and beady, bat-like and not unpleasant. They glint with sober intelligence. You clap a hand on his bicep and his instinct is to kill whatever’s touching him. 

“It would be rude if I made you do all the work twice in a row.” you smile and show your human teeth to him, a lesser animal subscribing to the niceties of society. He’s unaccustomed but not unappreciative. “Thank you.” 

You’re quick to politeness, respect and generosity of praise. He murdered your lover when you last met and you still thanked him for your life. Whether or not you would have been fine if he hadn’t shown up seems irrelevant to you, you’re honestly glad he did.

He scans your face, although whether he’s looking for sincerity or fear is unknown to him. He didn’t know you’re familiar with him, he wonders if you know it either. The haughtiness persists.

“Is this the part where you duck into an armoured van and leave me in the dust again?” he grips his gun a little tighter, less out of aggression and more out of discomfort. He’s ill-equipped for this conversation, for anything other than what needs to be explained to strangers. You already know, you look at his scarred face with interest and allure. 

You might be interested, although he’s never quite sure. People like to gawk at him when he does get seen, staring openly at a monster with intelligence. You surveyed him when you first met him, he remembers that. You took the opportunity to study what was, in one form or another, trying to kill you. The way you look at him now is different.

“Do you have a safe house?” he asks. “Somewhere close by?” you shake your head and if he were human he imagines his stomach might have sunk.

“I wouldn’t be out this late if I did. The people I was trying to find shelter with, they—” you trail off and Vaun’s happier than he can say that you don’t start to cry. He never knows what to do with criers. 

“You don’t have to explain.” he says in a way that makes you want to. You’re not bad people, he can trust you.

“This old man had maybe four ex-wives, two of them caught up with us,” you begin. “but they were, you know,” you grimace, showing your teeth. You smile just a bit. “they weren’t who they were. The old guy didn’t want us to kill them so I ran. Got caught up in another tussle.”

“At least you’re handling yourself better.” Vaun notes, you shrug.

“Handle it or die. Besides, anything other than screaming and crying is an improvement at the end of the world.” he makes that noise again, like a laugh but there’s no humour this time.

“Is that what you think this is?” he asks. You can’t help but lift an eyebrow.

“You were the one who said this shit spreads like a virus. Is there a cure?” Vaun pauses for a moment, he then shakes his head. “So, yeah. Looks like the end of the world to me.” you glance down at the corpses. 

You squeeze his arm, standing closer to him than most people ever do. At least he’s not trying to suck the blood out of your neck. 

“I owe you, Vaun,” you say. He wants you to say his name again. “big time.” he shakes his head.

“No,” he pauses again, looking down at your hand. You release him and your arm falls. “you should get out of town, fast as you can.” you shake your head.

“And miss all the fun? There’s people who could use the help.” Vaun’s third eyelid closes over, the translucent membrane blocking you from sight momentarily. You have to be crazy. 

“Suit yourself.” he says after a moment, rolling his shoulders and trying to get the feeling of your cool hand out of his bones. “So what’s your plan if you have nowhere to go?” 

“There’s a shelter about twenty blocks from here, I might be able to snag a spot.” Vaun makes a noise like he’s thinking, considering what to do. 

You need help again, you’ve already claimed the one generous act he’s willing to give a human life. He’d be going soft if he gave any more, and there’s no room for bleeding hearts during the apocalypse.

“Twenty blocks is far,” he says and you resist the urge to comment on the obviousness of the statement. “get in the van, we’ll give you a lift.” 

You peer over his shoulder at the empty street. The car sits waiting, but whether or not the idea is a safe one is debatable. He seems to sense your hesitation, the flux of your heartbeat.

“It’s safer than waiting around here.” he says and you have to agree. He turns and walks back towards the vehicle and you follow. He climbs into the backseat and you sit next to him, hooded figures occupying the back and front. It smells like copper and iron and all the things that blood could wash a surface in. You give the man in the driver’s seat the general area to head towards.

You keep a close eye on the street as you drive and if Vaun thinks it’s rude, he doesn’t say so. He speaks to you and you respond but there is no indication he’s trying to distract you. 

“UV light is effective,” he says after a moment of drawn-out silence. You turn your head just slightly so he knows you’re listening. “painful, of course, for the strigoi and good if you need a running start.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I thought it was just sunlight.” you hear fabric rustling, Vaun shakes his head. 

“It works. I see you’ve learned the edge that silver gives.” he looks down to your pocket where your less than refined weapon is sheathed. 

“It burns them, I almost feel bad.” Vaun grunts.

“Don’t. They don’t feel anything but rage and hunger. Neither should you.” you turn your head a fraction more now. You’re going in the right direction.

“That’s not all you feel, though, is it?” Vaun lifts his hand, gestures to the other shapes in the van. 

“We are the lucky few. We have sentience.” he says.

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why help people if you’re only ever hungry and angry?” Vaun seems to realize your attempt to call his bluff. His eyes claw up your face as he tries to find an appropriate response. 

“Because that’s what we are told to do.” he says. He shifts, turning to face the front of the van. You sense a change in the atmosphere, not quite danger but an overstepped boundary. As much as you’d like to apologize for the offence, you aren’t able to.

Instead you turn your eyes to the road again, watching the dark streets whip by. There are shapes in the darkness, glowing eyes that rise as you pass. You gasp as the car passes a darkened doorstep, lit only by a set of red eyes like two small occultations. You exhale and rest your head against the window.

“We remember the fear.” Vaun says after a moment. You’re called away from your gripping terror by the sound of his distorted voice. You turn your head, fixing him with an apologetic look. “We help because we remember what it was like to be afraid.” 

You nod, declining to add on to a statement he didn’t have to give you. Information with him seems to be in short supply, a gift that can do just as much harm as an illness. You put your hand on your knee and realize that you’re shaking. Lifting your fingers to eye-level, you watch them spasm and tremble. Closing your fist, you turn away. You’re afraid, he’s not. He’s rigid and stiff, you are as delicate as they come. 

“Did you want this?” you ask after a moment. “Did you want to be fearless forever?” Vaun shakes his head.

“Nobody wants this.” he says after a time. “I never had a choice.” 

“Because of you, I still have mine. I’m still human.” he nods, as if that was the only intention he had when he came to your rescue.

“There’s a flaw in all vampire biology, carefully hidden so most don’t realize just how dangerous it is. There’s no loyalty, no love, just a twisted desire to take your dear one’s choice to be alive.”

You remember your boyfriend, the halted and terrible change to his speech. He was an animal, hunting you until he purged the fixation. You’re hesitant but your hand isn’t shaking any more as you put it on Vaun’s knee. Maybe he, at one point, was the same. Maybe he loved someone and he killed them because a voice in his head demanded it. You have hard time reconciling this, recognizing your rescuer as the monster he clearly wants you to see him as. 

“I wouldn’t say all.” you say. You apply affectionate pressure and watch his back stiffen. He doesn’t pry himself away from you which is encouraging. There’s a troubling tug on the strings of your living heart, your heart that pumps blood tinged a gorgeous red. You don’t know about the tightness in his throat, about the choices lined up in front of him. 

But he doesn’t pull away, he watches his watcher. You look at him through the changing light in the van and hope he’ll understand something. He’s not sure what it is, or if you’re even sure yourself. 

If you want him to think he’s different, he’s way ahead of you. He’s different in a paltry sense that he won’t share, an inch of space between monster and man belongs solely to him. That’s it. He doesn’t kill the people that haven’t earned it. He’s better by a distinction, by a weapon he knows how to fire. 

He pulls away then before you can read emotions into him. He doesn’t know why he helped you, why he helps anyone other than because he can’t stand to see the helpless stay helpless. The voice in his head says contain the outbreak, the specifics are his to control. 

There’s an unwillingness to break contact that you nearly miss. The van rolls to a stop a block or so away from the shelter. There doesn’t seem to be nearly as much danger here than the places you passed. You don’t feel safe, don’t imagine you will until they find a way to cure or kill these things. But you feel better, slightly better that Vaun is somewhere out there. He helps because he can, you’ve come to realize. He’s the antithesis of what he fights, even if he rejects that simplicity. 

“Thanks again.” you say, turning towards the door. You open it and undo your seatbelt. “I’m going to have to work overtime clearing up this debt.” you say, almost half-joking. 

You feel a hand on your shoulder, a heavy grip preventing you from leaving you almost cry out in fear. Your terror is chased away by the realization that Vaun is not going to eat you. You look at him and watch as he takes a handgun from the holster on his hip. He holds it by the barrel, offering you the handle.

You take it and check the magazine, it’s fully stocked. You lift your eyes to him and he seems almost surprised by your playful smile.

“More silver?” you ask and he nods.

“You’re all right with a knife but close combat’s something to be avoided until you know exactly what you’re doing.” you shrug.

“I’m not about to look a gift gun in the mouth. I’ll return the favour one of these days.” this is twice now, twice that he’s given you the chance to stay alive. The first time was childish, nearly. He picked you up and placed you on the opposite end of danger.

He can’t keep doing that and he can’t keep driving with you in the back seat. Vaun’s given you a tool to help you stay alive, you won’t waste it. 

Your hand brushes his glove in a gesture almost like a handshake. You grab him, entangle your fingers and squeeze. It doesn’t last as long as the others, your own affinity for touch outweighed by your desire to take cover. You leave the van and hear the door close behind you.

He doesn’t leave you this time, doesn’t speed off with you in the dust. You go your separate ways, each projecting forward to a time when you can exist in the same room again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vaun surviving the burning and a slightly graphic description of his face post-that are included in this chapter

When something is poisoned, fundamentally rotten to its core it’s supposed to be thrown away. You can’t very well throw the world away, can’t throw away the ground your boots hit but society? Chuck it. 

You’ve been in and out of groups, support networks both useful and not so useful. Banding together is better, objectively you know this but there’s something nice about the solitude. There’s something nice about not defining borders.

Humans are so very us versus them. Sometimes you like to remember that the lines are not so very rigid. 

You can’t help but think of Vaun at times like these, armed to the teeth and ready to defy expectation. The world is a cold and dismal place, you’re not certain of his intentions but how much worse could they be in comparison to others? 

He’s not been seen for a while, though. Him and his team have faded to the background somewhat with the increasing panic. You function independently and save your bullets like he told you. The sun rises and falls, the monsters come out of hiding and still the world goes on. 

You shove your hands in your pockets and push your earbuds in your ears. Music explodes outwards into your head as you navigate the downtown core. You’ve been cooped up in an old bookstore for too long, you’re starting to get antsy. And hungry. 

The people hoping to win this war against monsters wearing well-loved faces are idiots with something to lose. You’ve had time to think, time to fight for your ability to keep breathing and found optimism wanting. 

Still, businesses manage to stay open. Cars fly by on the streets and it’s no surprise that the American equivalent of the landed gentry can still find help for all their niche issues. 

An elevator repair truck of all things whizzes by the pizza place you decide to occupy. The glass window facing out towards the street gives you the inspiring view of a rich man’s parking lot. The back of the van pulls into the loading dock of the Stoneheart group building and out of your line of sight. 

You wait, you get food, you sit by the window and watch scared people bustle. All sorts exist in the same urban hotspot, three-piece suits with rubbish like you. Wild-eyed drug addicts and somebody trying to hide the fact that they’re getting very sick. 

Again, you count the bullets left in your magazine without dropping your eyes from the window. One, two, three. Enough to put down someone should they turn into something else. The thought gives you comfort, provides enough reassurance to keep you seated. 

The vampires exist in the dark and the shadows, you can’t live there. You will not be that afraid. 

So you sit, tense and worried and watching but never acting. Your time spent around others is so limited, it hurts you that social immersion is something you’re becoming increasingly less attached to. 

In a way, the timing is perfect, your persistent desire to be strong gives you the exact environment where you must be. A man comes back for the elevator truck, the one you never saw leave. He’s looking around, anxious as all hell and jumping into the front seat. He drives away. 

You furrow your brow and lean forward, glaring across the street. You almost miss it, it’s so quick but a shadow falls out of that back end of the building, a black splotch with a flash of red. It ducks into an alley.

“Holy shit.” you mumble, standing up from your seat at the window. You don’t even bother to dispose of your garbage before you’re rushing out into the street. Only narrowly do you avoid the zipping cars as you follow that black shadow. From the front of the Stoneheart building pours armed men in respectable suits and earpieces. Your stomach drops, but they don’t seem to see you. They’re looking for the truck, didn’t even notice the escaping figure on its own. 

There’s a moment, just a brief one that you think you might die chasing after whatever’s being hunted. It’s a risk you barely have time to meditate on before you’re walking into the alley. You tug your hood up over your hair, keep your eyes down and your pace confident. You’re not followed. 

The alley twists and branches off, almost impossible to find a direct exit for. _Straight lines_ , you think. _Whatever happened to straight lines?_  

It’s an ideal hiding place, however. Even you can admit that as you find that the sun really doesn’t reach down here. Every corner becomes a potential hiding place where someone fleeing might seek refuge. 

The longer you walk the more time you have to confront the reason why you took interest in the first place.

It was probably just a coincidence that the retreating figure was in black and red. Maybe it wasn’t Vaun or one of his team members. Maybe this really was a mistake. 

A weak clicking noise, like a stinger moving in a throat makes you freeze. You turn your head and reach for the gun in your purse. It’s a vampire, whatever it is. And maybe it’s found you. 

You take a step, then another towards the source of the noise. You unzip your bag and from it you pull the gifted handgun. The noise the safety makes when you turn it on makes the thing your looking for click again in worry. 

Humans don’t have dark vision, evolution evidently skipping that step. Instead, you rely entirely on your depth perception and its ability to pick out what doesn’t belong. Shapes and shadows could hide anything. There’s another noise from the direction your looking in.

You realize with a slight inhale of rushed breath that the shape your looking at is not a pool of darkness cast by lack of the sun, it’s a crumpled body. You have most definitely found it. 

It shudders, making you tense and hop back a step in fright. You’re already too close, you realize. If this strigoi wants to eat you, you’ll be dead before you can realize it. 

The tongue stays in its mouth, however and it does not turn to even see you. There’s a sinking sensation in your chest when it moves just slightly and the hood that’s wrapped around its head slips down.

There’s red fabric, just like you saw and thin skin. A single, pointed ear and a sharp cheekbone is revealed to you. 

“Vaun?” you choke. The heap of tactical gear and foul-smelling flesh is unresponsive. 

You lower your gun a fraction and step closer to him. He doesn’t turn and attack, doesn’t even move except to shiver and click. You sink to your knees beside him. 

Prying the hood very gently back from its place, it’s still too dark to see what’s been done to him. You fish around in your purse for your phone, pulling it out and hitting the flashlight button.

The light touches things you’d rather not see, and you understand why the alley smells like charred skin. He’s been burned, badly. 

It’s Vaun, you realize as a lump of tangled emotion presses against your ribcage. He isn’t bleeding, just badly scarred and thoroughly damaged. 

He’s face-down, half of his head still stark white and mottled with ropes of grey veins. The other half— carnage. Absolute chaos and burned black. His other ear is torn, damaged potentially beyond repair along with most of the back of his head. You don’t want to think about the state of his face. 

 _Night will becoming soon_ , you think as your mind springs to action. You can get him back to the book store and hide him in the office rooms. You can barricade the doors and give him time to recover. Or die. You clench your fist around your phone before dousing the light.

No, he’s let you live twice now. He’s saved you more times than people get the chance to repay. You have to help him and you have to believe he will live. 

You lean down, nearly pressing your stomach to the ground. Your lips are nearly flush against his good ear and you speak as gently and as calmly as you can. 

“Vaun, I need you to get up. I’m here to help you, but I’m not strong enough to carry you. You have to stand, please.” there’s a shuddering noise, a useless gasp of breathe like he’s working through something greater than pain. His hands, splayed out at his sides move then like he’s only just heard you. 

He puts his weight on those hands, pushing himself up. You would move if it were anyone else, stagger back out of fear of getting your neck snapped or stung. Instead, you’re there for him and you feel him grip your arm in the dark. He pushes himself up until he’s kneeling, grasping at you for strength. You’ve been waiting for this.

You have strength in both hands, enough for him to take and use and burn. You stand together, supporting him on a shoulder and a hip. He leans but doesn’t get close to falling. When he’s upright, the two of you painstakingly make your way off into the dark. 

* * *

The shadow of night is long and dark when you push through the back door of the book store. You found it by accident, running from something low to the ground and very fast. The interior was easy enough to customize, outfitted with a sleeping bag and your backpack of clothes.

The shelter lasted longer than you thought it would, but disease spreads quick in close quarters. The warfare wasn’t something you wanted to watch unfold so you grabbed what you could. When you have three bullets to your name and a knife, you run when trouble comes knocking. 

Except now, and you’re not sure how you feel about this. Vaun is trouble in this moment, he’s dead weight and slowing you down. You loop your arm around his waist in an act of self-defiance. You won’t leave him behind. 

The door slams shut behind you both and you remind yourself to lock and bar it later. You stagger through the shop, keeping Vaun upright. He hasn’t said a word since you found him, but the clicking is getting worse. 

He sinks into a chair in the office and you drop your purse by the door. Pulling up a stool, you sit across from him. You reach out, pulling his hood back so you can see him better.

The dim, overhead light casts ghastly shadows on the ruined mess that is his head. The right half is almost unrecognizable, burned black and twisted like flames. It eats along his forehead, consuming most of the side of his face. 

He looks at you, staring blankly before weakly mumbling “You—”

You spring to life, placing your hands careful on his knees. You lean towards him. 

“Vaun? Darling, can you hear me?” you don’t mean to blurt our affection like it’s an open sore in your mouth. You’re bleeding sentiment. You’re frantic, hands fluttering like uncaged birds.

“Ella?” he asks, he but he doesn’t seem to see you. One eye is burned shut and the other stares helplessly over your shoulder. “Is that— what’s your name?”

You tell him and he shakes his head. His hands cover yours, then trail up your arms. He’s shaking desperately but not out of rage or fright.

“No, it started with an E. Didn’t it start with that? What was it? Emily, Eliza?” he makes a hollow sound. “What was your name? I don’t remember.” he drops his eye. You feel immediately better.

“Vaun, it’s me.” you say again, slowly this time. He doesn’t look up. “You helped me twice, you gave me a gun that saved me six times. Do you remember?” it doesn’t really matter. He still doesn’t lift his scarred head. “I’m going to help you now. Okay? I’m going to make sure you’re safe.”

He slumps forward, then. The pain would’ve made a human built like a gladiator fall to their knees but he holds out as long as he can. He turns his head so his unmarred cheek presses flat to your shoulder. His twisted nose presses into your throat, his mouth so close to you. You shiver, you sigh. He’s unresponsive beyond a grunt here and there. You don’t move, afraid to jostle him but you do lift your hand, placing your much cooler fingers against the hot burn scars on his opposite cheek.

* * *

Vaun is silent for a long time, the rasping and clicking dulling. When it begins to pick up again, you shift and move your shoulder. He lifts his head, pulling away from you. You sit back and watch his stinger push to the front of his mouth. 

You close your eyes, shut them tight and wait for the painful feeling of a hooked blade in your throat. Will he drain you dry quickly? Is this what he’s been wanting to do since you met him? 

The pain never comes, however and you open you eyes. Your breathing comes in hard, fast inhales. Your heart thuds. Vaun sits in front of you, silent but staring all the same. His stinger inches out of his mouth and then retracts. He shakes his head like he’s realizing something and drops his line of sight. 

“You’re hungry.” part of you wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, another part is fully aware of the situation. He needs blood and badly, or he might just waste away to nothing. “Stay here.”

Your voice sounds nothing like your own, determination lives and thrives in your eyes. You rise and turn away from Vaun, heading towards the front door.

Tears come easily as you step out into the street. Pulling your hood down, you look up the lamplit expanse of dirty storefronts. The streets are empty except for a man. He walks with purpose and confidence, completely unlike a strigoi. He’s safe to approach, but you are not. 

Are you really going to do this? You think back to Vaun, struggling to find the name of some dead girl amidst all the others. Your heart cracks. There isn’t a butcher’s shop for miles and a proper source of blood is walking towards you.

“Oh my god!” you exclaim before you can convince yourself not to. The tears run hot down your face. You run to him, your voice like the hiss of a snake. He holds his arms out, telling you without saying to keep away. “Please—” you say.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, you can taste the empathy on his voice. _Fuck_ , you think. _How’d he survive this long?_

“Please, you have to help me. My friend, he’s—” you choke back a sob that’s too real, too uncomfortably close. “he’s different, he’s trying to—” the man’s eyes drain of colour. He shakes his head.

“You gotta get away from there.” your shoulders slump and you nod. 

“I can’t just leave him like that, he’ll come after me. Isn’t that what they do?” you look up, hopeless and helpless. He looks at your face. “I can’t kill him. I can’t do it.” 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, sounding less like he’s going to run. There’s a note of sarcasm in his voice and you surprise yourself with how ready you are for an answer. You reach for the knife at your hip, tugging it out and holding it up to him. 

“Please?” you ask. He lets out a low sigh.

“I’ve only killed a couple, I can’t—” you cut him off.

“I have money. Food. Water. Name your price. Just help me.” he hesitates, eyes darting this way and that but the world hasn’t crumbled completely. There’s pity in his gaze that stings you and you take the knife. 

You leave him back to the bookstore, him trailing behind until you get to the door. You hold it open for him and direct him to the back of the shop. You point to the door, behind which sits Vaun and you open it before darting out of the way. You’ve gotten fast, faster than this man is. You line yourself up behind him.

You feel like you should say something, anything to alleviate the guilt of the life you’re about to directly take but nothing comes to mind. The sense of mindless dread you should be feeling is occupied instead by anxiety over the fact that you’re not feeling it at all. You inhale, then exhale and push the man into the room with Vaun, slamming the door.

There’s a thud and a gasp, the clattering of a knife hitting the floor. There’s a backward step and you can almost feel Vaun’s tongue dart out and grab the man by his exposed throat. There’s screaming, muffled cries for help and thrashing for a few moments until all his silent.

You crack open the door and take in the sight. Vaun sits forward on his chair, there isn’t a drop of blood wasted. You never considered the idea that he might be a messy eater but he would have certainly disproved it if you did. He lifts his gaze and the anxiety over a lack of human response is replaced by a thrum of genuine relief.

You watch his strength return in slow motion. He eyes the momentary corpse and your observatory position. You scuttle forward and pick the knife up off the ground. He holds out a hand.

“No, I’ll kill him again.” he says, voice gruff and so serious. You don’t lower the knife. “I’ll do it, you’ve done enough.”

You sink to your knees in direct defiance and plunge your knife into the man’s dry throat. You twist and withdraw before sheathing it in his skull cap.

“I’m sorry.” he says. He doesn’t look disgusted, more like he’s mourning. Does he think he’s watching your innocence leave you?

“Vaun—” you mumble, that relief spilling out of your throat and your eyes. You stand and rush to him, throwing your arms around him and pulling him in close. He tucks his head into the corner of your arm, his unscarred cheek presses flat against your abdomen. His hands rest on your mid back, higher than they need to be.

You pull back, taking a step and folding your arms over your chest. He looks up, finds your eyes and holds your gaze. Y wonder if he knows just how little the body behind you bothers you now that you know it was worth it. 

“I wouldn’t drink from you,” he says. “You did what you had to do, that wasn’t your fault—” you cut him off with something like a glare. He falls momentarily silent.

“Of course it was my fault. Did you need it?” he looks momentarily taken aback, unsure if the voice leaving you is something he’s heard before. You look sharp, ready to strike. He nods. “Then I don’t care if it makes me a murderer. You’re going to need more, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” he says. He sounds distant, still. The timber of his voice is a touch abnormal and exhausted. “The sunlight— it weakens more than anything else.”

“Then I’ll get it for you.” you reach out, brush your fingers down the cheekbone that’s still stark-white. He leans in, towards your hand.

 


	4. Chapter 4

You end up hauling three bodies into the dumpster to burn come morning. You watch them catch fire as the new sun rays touch their skin. They scorch and twist, the worms in their blood wriggling but they cannot escape.

Did Vaun burn like this? You ask yourself. The thought unsettles you, worse than unsettles you. He will never be the same, you know, but the blood of three people seems to be sufficient in helping him get back on his feet. You watch their skulls cave in, noses and eye sockets and hair falling away to nothing. 

The sun’s rays feel different against your skin, they don’t warm you how they once did. The rejection of what once brought you happiness should trouble you but things are now changed. Too changed. You retreat back into the shop, stepping over old books tossed to the floor. You pick them up when you feel the desire to, setting them on rickety shelves and old, glass cases. 

Vaun hasn’t said much since your insistence that he rest while you do the hunting. You imagine that he’s embarrassed at best, disgusted at worst. Your human sensibilities that were once so delicate have been refined with a willingness to do what you can for him. 

You climb the stairs to the second floor of the shop. He’s moved to avoid any windows and the ones up here are nicely boarded. Your belongings are scattered in a way that might make it difficult to leave quickly, but you’ve almost grown attached to the setting.

A cot lies on the floor in the corner of the room, your portable stovetop sitting just beside. In the centre of the room is your chair and his.

He sits in the darkness, eyes closed but still alert. The charred remains of the side of his face look grotesque in the half-light as you open the door. The sound makes his remaining ear twitch and he opens his eyes. 

“How do you feel?” you ask, voice just above a whisper. He has been relatively quiet but he didn’t have to speak up for you to notice he’s wincing at loud noises. 

“No better since the last time you asked.” he says, but his voice isn’t sharp or hard. He looks at you, one eye is slightly clouded but the other is glittering with intelligence and something like humour. 

“What’s so funny?” you ask, stepping into the room. You keep the door open out of necessity. 

“Nothing,” he says. You give a one-shoulder shrug. “I doubt I’ll regenerate any of the lost tissue.” he admits as you sit down in the chair across from him. You’re close to him, your knees nearly touching his. He seems to notice.

“That’s terrible, how’s the pain?” you lift your hand almost involuntarily and he doesn’t shrink away. You’re careful as you touch his burned side, not wanting to catch your nail against his skin. He lets out a low hiss and you pull away. 

“Bearable,” he replies. He lifts his arm, snapping his fingers just around his damaged ear. “I might be getting hearing back, slowly. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.” you shake your head. 

“I’m sure you’re going to be fine soon.” you say. His hand falls with a thud back to his side just as yours rises. “How about your vision?” you ask, waving your fingers in front of his clouded eye.

“Don’t do that.” he says with that humour in his eye touching his voice. Vaun snatches your hand out of the air and guides it back to your lap. His touch lingers, his gloved hands nearly swallowing yours. He doesn’t let you go immediately. “I can see your shadow against the door in that eye. It isn’t complete darkness.” 

You turn your head towards the light pouring into the room. When you turn back, you’re smiling. He doesn’t quite know why. You lean forward, your knees most definitely touching his now. You place your hand on his shoulder, nearly curving up the back of his neck. 

“You’ll be okay, you’re tough.” you say, your enthusiasm isn’t as infectious as you would like it to be.

“We can hope.” he says. “Or the sun hunters are going to need a new leader.” he leans back, away from your hand as if distrustful. You find yourself distracted enough by the new information that the rejection doesn’t sting as much.

“Sun hunters? Is that what you’re called?” you ask and he pauses a moment before shaking his head.

“Not any more,” he begins. “I don’t think anyone else on my team made it out of the Stoneheart building alive.” your face falls, and he watches you crumble. Your hands knit together in your lap.

“Oh, Vaun,” you say. “I’m so sorry—” he lifts a hand as if to wave away your sympathy. “What are you going to do?”

“This isn’t the first time it’s happened. It won’t be the last.” you can’t seem to shake the hurt look on your face. 

“I shouldn’t ask what happened, should I?” you try, just to see if he might tell you. Vaun shoots you a look. 

“Either ask or don’t ask.” he replies. 

“Not if you don’t want to talk about it.” you decide. He shrugs. 

“I don’t. It was a mission gone wrong, very wrong. It was a waste of life.” that seems to be all he’s going to say on the subject. The realization sends a stabbing pain through your chest. You’d never seen any of the other’s faces, never known what they looked like, but—

“They were good people.” you offer up, slightly comforted when Vaun accepts your condolences.

“Replacing them will be difficult but they’ve done it before.” you cock your head to the side.

“Who has?” you ask, realizing that for all your perceived familiarity, you don’t know Vaun well at all. He seems to debate telling you. 

“The Ancients.” he finally reveals. You lift a brow that even with one eye put out does not escape his notice. 

“Sounds serious.” you say, bracing your hands on your knees. “Who are they?”

“Strigoi,” he says, as if committing fully to telling you. “they are, as the name implies, quite old. Seven original vampires, three of them live in New York.” your eyes widen. 

“For how long?” you ask. 

“Longer than the city’s stood.” he confirms. You close your eyes for a moment, as if to process this. You’ve lived in New York long enough that such a disruption to your baseline of understanding takes you aback.

“They didn’t do this, did they?” you wonder out loud, looking around the darkened room. The carnage outside, this can’t have been planned. You’re relieved when Vaun shakes his head. You trust him. 

“No, no. The youngest of the seven has enacted a plan to conquer the old world and the new. He’s acting alone.” you resist the urge to drop your jaw. “The sun hunters work to control vampire numbers, we wipe out any strain that might become a problem.”

“Is that why you were at the Stoneheart builing?” you say, sounding more concerned that blandly curious.

“It was an attempt to control a major player in the spread of the current strain.” he confirms. You sit back, you exhale.

“That’s—” you exhale, slowly. “that sounds like a huge burden to carry.” 

Vaun looks somber for a moment there, flinching against the sting of his injuries. You want to reach out again, to touch him and promise you won’t let anyone hurt him like this. 

“I haven’t heard from them.” he says, turning his head just slightly. “Strigoi are linked to a hive-mind, connected to the Ancient who’s strain they belong to. The sensation is similar to a buzzing sound, but it’s faded now.”

He is the one to reach out this time. His hand covers yours and squeezes. 

“I’ll leave when night falls, decisions need to be made.”

“Everything is fine, Vaun.” you say. You extract your hand from his, thinking for a moment on your best course of action before reaching for his wrist. Carefully, you pull the tactical glove off of his right hand. You’ve never seen his hands properly, you realize as you knit your fingers with his. Your cool palm presses to his warm one. 

“It isn’t.” he says, looking up at you. He seems unlikely to pull away despite the uncertainty in his eye.

“Even if it isn’t, you need to recover.” you reply. “Stay here tonight. You can go any time after that.” he looks down at your joined hands, the pallor of his skin and the grey veins twisting in his fingers. 

“I’m strong.” he says. “I’m strong enough.” you nod, unwilling and unable to argue that. 

“I never said you weren’t. But I want you to stay all the same.” his grip around your hand suddenly tightens, an unexpected reaction. He is careful about it, but pulls you closer all the same.

“Why?” he asks. 

“Because I almost lost you once.” you say as if it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world. He looks so confused. You make a calculated error, or possibly the opposite. Your lips, already closer to his than they’ve been to his press against the corner of his mouth.

The kiss, if it can truly be called that, lasts only a moment. The sprinting thoughts in your head, his question of why and the way his tense hand loosens in yours tumble around like true irrelevancies. You care only for his reaction and your own sense of fulfillment. 

He’s so warm, even for the brief period you’re close to him. You pull away and realize that somewhere between seconds one and four, your eyes closed. They open and you find yourself staring at Vaun. He looks shaken, amused, perturbed. 

When his mouth opens you expect him to speak. Instead, the clicking noise you heard in the alleyway returns. It’s a curious sound, one you’re too accustomed to but not perturbed by. He inches his head towards yours, angling himself so that the unscarred portion of his forehead leans against yours. He kisses you again, properly. 

Your hand that is unconfined comes to rest on his cheek, remembering the way he leaned into you. He does it again, no distrust evident in his reaction. He accepts this, he accepts your affection and you melt into him. 

Caution is exerted, especially given his state but you have no right to disagree when the hand holding yours quickly turns to the hand pulling you by your waist closer to him. You crash against him and he shudders like he’s afraid he’ll crack you. Your chest presses to his and you press fingers to his cheekbones. 

I won’t break, you want to tell him. It’s too hard to catch your breath. 

He tastes like iron, bloody even though he uses his mouth for virtually nothing in his unlife. The metallic touch is unexpected, not unwelcome. 

It’s you who has to pull alway, although you justify this choice as necessary for your health. Of the two, you’re the one who needs oxygen to function. You pry yourself from him but don’t stray far, instead resting your forehead against his in a moment of silent meditation.

“I can hear your heart.” he says. “It sounds like a hummingbird.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs on your mouth, your pulse soaring when the gesture is minutely mimicked in him. 

“You’ll stay?” you ask, rather than give his teasing observation a retaliation. He seems to give it thought.

“One more night.” he replies. You press your lips to his cheek once, then twice. 

“I do care, you know.” you say to him, wanting to gage his reaction. The hand on your back squeezes you. 

“I know,” he says. “it’s— unexpected. Nice and unexpected.” you glance up at him, eyes like a sun that won’t scar him. 

“Hm, am I boring you?” the look on his face is close to priceless. “Handsome strigoi like you must get kissed all the time.” he huffs, sounding older in that moment than you and your parents ages combined. 

“Not exactly often, but the urge is there. Sometimes.” your eyes widen with playful mirth. 

“Oh, so you wanted me to?” he clicks, makes a rumbling sound low in his throat that has you tripping over your smile. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, Vaun.” you say. 

“Again. Say it again.” he replies, something like a rasp to his voice. You blink. 

“What?” you ask him. “Vaun?” his smile returns like a February sky. It’s cold and unnatural but there is a hint of warmth waiting just behind his good eye. 

“Yes, that.” he finishes. His arm around you prevents you from pitching forward as you press your lips ot his ear for the second time in twenty-four hours. 

“Vaun?” you ask. Behind you, you hear him say yes? “Do strigoi need to sleep?” No. You hum, just quietly. “Interesting.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where shit gets smutty. sorry, kids.

You have the mystical outlook of someone who was either very much in love or was not, and is beginning to adjust your worldview to accommodate. You don’t look like you forget anything, from the snap of a voice to the slow melt of a candle down to nothingness.

The noonday sun streams in from boarded-up windows. He’s never seen sickness so bad, so destructive with such a fierce desire behind the eyes of others to protect the status quo. People are still going to work, he watches their shapes from his burned-out eye. They should be running for their short lives, or find themselves irreparably altered.

Your reaction is a needle in a haystack, a desire to bunker down and get your hands dirty how you should. You don’t interact with others and inspect for open woulds that could be vulnerable points. You left him twice last night and once in early morning to bring him people, your own kind. You have just returned.

Vaun thinks of Eldritch Palmer high in that building. Stoneheart is a ridiculous name, but entirely apt. He wonders how appreciative the walking carcass is of the irony, he doesn’t seem the type to laugh. Palmer sold humanity for cursed half-life that is a long way from being cashed in. Vaun could smile, could mock that man’s blindness but the notion makes him too sick to do so.

He wrestles with your sacrifice for a very long time, it does wonders to block out the stinging in his eye. You bring him blood, fresh blood and don’t seem to bat an eyelash until he says something about it. There’s a thick fog around his head for a few hours, complete inability to perceive the world around him for the pain.

_You’re not supposed to betray your own kind_ , he thinks in the dark. It’s similar to what he’s done for you, he counters in his own head. He gave you a gun and two chances to stay alive. You’re returning a favour.

He’s grateful for the help but sickened by the toll it might take. If you come to regret this, if he lowers his guard there could very well be no sun hunters left to fight for the Ancients who want to remain hidden. He’s weak and he hates it, he’s in a fragile state that turns his stomach.

Vaun would be lying if he said he’s never been in sunlight, his left shoulder still has the scars to prove his mistake. He was young, then, stupid and unaware. But the UV light hurt like the concentrated face of god. It burned like dark fire. It still burns, flames licking his skin and torching him alive. He’s already so warm, this punishment is unjust.

There’s a quick creaking sound that has him lifting his head. A woman, a stranger enters too quickly and she’s dead even quicker. Her skin mottles easily, all colour drained with her blood.

The burning sensation in his throat diminishes when her body hits the floor with a metric thud. He sinks back into his chair and waits until you knock on the door, asking without asking if it’s safe to enter. It’s been safe every time thus far.

His earlier worries about his potential demise at your hands go up in smoke when he sees you.

He could kill you in the time it would take for you to adjust to the dark. His stinger is lightning-fast, striking, drinking and retracting like a third arm. You wouldn’t stand a chance, and that’s why he hesitates. He was strong before, he pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat and still he did not bite.

Vaun cares, he can admit that much at least. Love? Adoration? He’s not sure if he feels that any more but fondness sounds safe. He’s fond of you and your smile, he’s fond of the way you look at him.

“I’ll get her out of here before—” he moves to help you and bristles somewhat when you wave your hand in the air. You wave him away. “sit, Vaun.” you finish. He wishes you’d stay, feels an odd ache in his chest when he watches you haul the body towards the door.

This is wrong. 

This is painful and wrong, but he can’t find it in him to be disgusted by his own desire to elongate this relationship. You helped him to pay a debt, is the way you look at him payment for what he’s due? 

He holds himself back from asking if you do this as some sort of consolation prize, instead listens to the flux of your voice and the way your hands always find a way to touch him.

Touch is new, not unwanted or distrusted. In fact it’s quite the opposite. He remembers gentle touch, the feeling of two warm hands fitting into one of his. Vaun’s thoughts are ghost-like and wispy. Your hands are nothing like the air-light things of his memories. You feel so solid.

Your weight is behind you when you kiss him, something he was hoping you would do. Even if it were just consolation prize for his twice-saviour nature. He’s starving for something other than blood.

There is an eagerness to the act, an adolescent desire to give thoughts a proper amount of tongue. Vaun does not smile easily but you coax laughter from his burning throat. 

He doesn’t feel human, isn’t sure the return of the giddy sensation to breathe is even fully possible. You pull away for air, laugh with him and make jokes while holding on to his warm hand. There’s gracefulness, beauty in your movements and in your eyes. You look down at his lips at ten second intervals. Interesting.

Like a library, your body is open to him to discover all sorts of things about human anatomy that left his mind. The heat and colour in your cheeks, the thrum of your heart like a quick sunrise— it feels possibly familiar but for the first time indisputably real. 

You seem the type to err on the side of caution. The world ending has dulled your ties to human life in the face of his demise but surely, he thinks, there is a limit. There is, however, not. You inquire after his sleep schedule, glancing at the oncoming morning and then to the cot. 

He doesn’t sleep, has forgotten the presence of dreams that press at the forefront of his mind. Do strigoi have a subconscious? He wouldn’t pay to know. Your eyes linger on the cot, there is a desperate battle taking place behind the clouds in your irises. Your sight is not physically impeded but must be so on a figurative level.

“Come, darling.” you say with that same voice that made him think of his wife. It’s been two hundred years since he was shaken so badly by just a tone. Slits of sunlight rest on the floor, but the cot is a safe distance. 

You sit, undoing your hair and shrugging off your coat. You hold out your hand, motioning for him to follow you. His boots hit the floor and make a hard sound. Vaun lowers his hood and watches you. The look in his eyes is hungry, but different than usual.

“I told you, I don’t sleep.” he says, saying the first needless string of words since he met you. The look on your face is confused, then amused. 

“Good thing I don’t _want_ to go to sleep, then.” you say with purpose. Your cool hand beckons for him again, pulling him in like you’re a maelstrom and he someone sinking. 

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” he asks. He’s moving but more slowly now, removing the glove from his other hand. He pushes them into the pocket at his side. Your hands hover at the hem of your shirt and he gives you a questioning look. 

“Are you going to waste my time for me, then?” your response is playful but lodges in him a deeply disgruntled sentiment. You’re right, is there any point in waiting? He intends to leave tomorrow, to return for further instruction. You have been alive twice, surprised him with your will to survive but there are precious few guarantees. This chance may not come again. 

“No.” he says. There is a firmness to his gaze that is intended to make you shiver. It works. 

“I’m sorry,” you say and that sultry tone takes a backseat to something more familiar to him. Your concern is welcome in times of sincere doubt, it’s an affirmation that the fondness is mutual. “you’re not well. You don’t have to—” but your hands don’t leave the hem of your shirt.

* * *

Now it’s his turn to wave his hand in the air, the gesture looking almost strange. He continues to move forward, slowing as he reaches you. His eyes are interested, almost curious about the revealing of your anatomy when you pull your shirt over your head. Vaun looks at you, as if coming to a revelation but his smile is contained purely within his darting gaze. He looks you up and down, as best he can. His gaze makes a feeling close to nervousness blossom inwardly in your stomach. 

“How much do you know about strigoi biology?” he asks, almost distracted by the sight of you. He’s careful not to touch, a respectable distance from you. It isn’t until you snatch his hand in yours that he seems to pull himself away from his own mind. Vaun’s hand is a searing heat against the cold, soft skin of  your unclothed hip. 

“Nothing,” you begin, momentarily distracted. You have been skin-to-skin with him before, _moments_ before but there is a very different rush to this. “I know nothing.” his eye closes, just for a moment. It strikes you that it might be a gesture of vulnerability. 

“Sit down.” he says, his voice flirts with being commanding but you don’t feel as if you have to. You keep a hold on his hand, pulling him with you and he does not resist. 

The cot isn’t much for protection but it’s comfortable enough. You think to ask him if it’s fine but the look of insistence in his eye, and the newfound exploration he’s conducting with his hands gives you an answer. He touches your stomach, your hips as if revelling in the human warmth, the natural chill of you in comparison. He feels so hot, more so than usual.

You shift and lift your hips enough to take your pants off. Vaun pulls away for a moment, as if struck by the strangeness of the situation. This isn’t ideal, you can almost hear him say it. His mouth stays closed but you could have sworn he spoke. You look confused for a moment, but find the urge to smile to difficult to resist. This is  _exciting_ , nothing is ideal. He smiles too. 

“How do you—” you start to say, reaching for the clasp on his bullet proof vest. His hand covers yours and that look in his eye, that look of understanding is replaced with the closest you’ve seen him get to fear. You blink but he doesn’t push your hand away. 

He undoes the straps at the shoulders and the ones at his sides. Vaun is thinner than the imposing figure he cuts with it on. He doesn’t move to remove anything else he’s wearing, however. But he does lie down on the cot. It isn’t what you expect and nearly throws you for a loop. 

“Come here,” he says, actually speaking out loud this time. His voice is low, less commanding of a tone. He phrases it like a question, as if you would ever refuse. “lie on your back.”

Your enthusiasm is only matched by your confusion, but you do as he gestures for you. It’s not immediately clear but he intends for you to lie with your back to his chest. He’s warm and solid, half-underneath you. You can’t think of the last time you were this unsure. His groin is flush with your bottom and the gasp that leaves your mouth is one of understanding. There isn’t anything there.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, all traces of humour gone from his voice. He asks you a question and the arms that fold around your waist loosen until you have enough room to squirm away. You do not. 

“No,” you say, biting back a blush. “you know what you’re doing.” the vote of confidence seems to reassure him and his arms are around you again once more. He makes his move, pressing one hand to your abdomen while the other squeezes your breast through your bra.

“Good,” he says, sounding marginally more at ease with your positive reaction. “open your legs.” and you do so, unable to resist his gentle suggestions. His hand on your stomach slithers down. The heat of his fingers brushes your cotton underwear. 

“Vaun—” you begin, your voice caught somewhere between panic and excitement. “I don’t know if this is fair—” you turn your head, half-expecting to find some explanation. There is nothing of the sort, just a disquietingly kind expression in his eyes. He kisses your cheek, kisses what he can reach that’s close to your mouth and shakes his head. 

“You said it yourself, I know what I’m doing.” and you can’t argue with that. You brush your hair away from your neck, his hand sinking below the waistband of your underwear as his head sinks to press his lips to your throat. There is an element of intimacy you imagine must have been very familiar to him once. 

He’s rewarded with your sighs and racing heartbeat, the sounds satisfying to him despite the limits of his anatomy. You are still enthralled by him, looking at him with that human emotion nearly spilling from your eyes.

There is a clumsiness to how he touches you, an unspoken lack of practice that has you hissing gently when his movements are too coarse for your liking. He stills and lifts his head when your hand covers his. 

“Gently, darling.” you mumble, feeling him shiver underneath you. “We have time.” you remind him. Vaun makes a noise to tell you he heard you, easing his pressure and rubbing you in slow circles. 

You melt on top of him, legs parting and tension falling to something softer. You feel safe in a way that feels as tangible as him. Behind you, he kisses your neck and cheek. 

There is very little left to say as the sun creeps along the expanse of blue sky. The danger hides underground, you feel Vaun wrestle with his desire to latch onto your neck and drain you with his stinger. Instead he pushes two fingers inside you, dragging them back and forth. 

Heat blooms behind your closed eyes, moans bubble like boiling water in your chest. He revels in the noises you make, drinks them instead. Your hand claws at his clothed hip, feeling underdressed but not exposed. He squeezes your breast and keeps you from thrashing too wildly. 

With instruction, he manages to stay on the side of absurdly pleasurable. His fingers drag inside you, curling until they find a spot that feels like sparking skyrockets. 

“Where did you learn how to do that?” you ask, thankful that your voice is more composed than the reactions of your body. He does not answer, but instead experimentally catches the skin of your neck between his pointed teeth. There is a concentrated effort not to make you bleed. 

You fall silent, nearly silent as you let the familiar sensations build in you. His patience seems boundless, fully happy to kiss you as languidly as he pleases. 

_“Vaun._ ” his hand stills when you speak and you insistently roll your hips to spur him on. Like him, you’re a quick study. You repeat his name the way he asked you to before, conscious of the effect it has on him. His stinger rattles in his throat, a low sound like a soft rumble in your ear. 

Your orgasm washes over you like a warm tide, the sun still patterning the floor with yellow lines. You turn your head in the opposite direction, whining as Vaun leaves marks. Gripping his hip until he hisses, you roll your hips against his fingers and ride out the sensation. You claw at it, hoping it won’t fade too quickly. There’s a numbness in your lower body that doesn’t last, but the feeling of safety does. 

You turn, you can’t help it. Your hair falls in your eyes and there is an empty feeling inside of you when his fingers retract. Sinking down on the cot beside him, brushing your hair back you study the expression on his face. He doesn’t look as exhausted as you feel. You’re propped up on your elbow, watching him and wishing there was some way you could return the favour. 

“Are you satisfied?” he asks, the look on his face like a thinly veiled joke. You’re about to respond when he lifts his hand, opens his mouth and licks at the fingers that were previously buried inside you. Biting down on your lip, you find it momentarily difficult to meet his gaze. 

“I could ask you the same thing, darling.” you offer up after a moment. His hand falls back down. You make yourself comfortable against his side, getting as close as you can. His warmth is something you could get quite used to. 

“I enjoyed that.” he finally admits. You nod, free with your affections as you rest your head against his shoulder. He turns to look at you, watching your chest rise and fall. 

“I did too.” your eyes close, just for a moment as you stretch out next to him. You could fall asleep like this, but perhaps it wouldn’t be fair. “Don’t feel like you have to stay,” you say, as if your arm isn’t in the process of being thrown over his chest. 

Vaun thinks about tonight, about how he has to wait for the cover of darkness. He should graft his hood to his head, it likely wouldn’t hurt as much as his scars still do. You’re careful when you touch him, staying only on the unburned side of his face. Even now he can’t help but lean into you. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” he replies, watching you drop off into that puzzling, human sleep without trying. He’ll be here when you wake up. The dark outside is full of horrible things and for the umpteenth time in his endless life he has the choice not to be alone. As if he’d ever want that again.


	6. Epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set post-abjection in which vaun, the reader, gus and quinlan are kicking strigoi ass. with some makeout sessions along the way between the first two. this is one of them.

You kiss that hollow between his neck where his stinger has carved out a niche and he feels the tension leave him. He is in constant pain, the burning press of thirst like a hot knife against his throat. Your lips are cool, soft and you kiss him so carefully that even the rattling in his chest is forced to quiet. 

Vaun leans in towards you, hands settling on your back. Not too heavy-handed, now. If you were anything but in control you’d flutter away like some pretty, urban bird. He knows to stay still, not to grab you when you are in the process of grabbing him. 

Your mouth is feather-light, soothing his fire with water and drowning his instinct with affection. Fondness could tear a hole in his chest. A dead strigoi lies nearby, its tongue pulled from its throat by your gloved hands. He wanted you to try it on him, just to pantomime it after he showed you how. 

You took it seriously, getting close to him. And then closer still. He wanted to tell you that you’d be dead at this short distance but there was no chance to. You lunged, laughing and pinned him in a sense. Your body covers his like there is a nuclear explosion at your back to protect him from. Your head dips while his face is turned skyward. 

His relinquishment of power in this particular instance is a rare, privileged happening. It is a quiet, peaceful gesture. It is a reward for paying such close attention. He’s an old man, fearful of losing what little he has and you never fail to indulge him.

Your small hands cover his gloved ones. You pry his fingers from your hips and with newfound strength you press them to the wall behind him. You hold him there, fingers slipping beneath the fabric covering the back of his hands to touch his warm palms. 

He lets out a sound like a choked sigh as you kiss him. The feeling is indescribable, the distraction closely mirroring the relief that feeding brings. He won’t drink from you but you satiate him all the same. 

“Beautiful,” you whisper, like something only the ugliest part of him is meant to hear. It reaches his ears and they twitch with budding sentiment. He could force you off of him, switch your places so easily but this is nice. It isn’t often that Vaun has very nice things.

The woman, the mysterious E used to kiss him like this. She ran her hand through his hair, cropped close to his skull and pushed his hand under her petticoats. He can’t remember the sound of her, nor the way she smelled. She dances on the edge of the mind that is so utterly occupied by the way you sound, the way you smell. 

He’s watched you sneak a bottle of rose-scented perfume into your purse. Fifth avenue was in shambles. _I need it more than they do_ , you said with a glee that he couldn’t stamp out. You wear it more often than not, but it only serves to cloud the metallic scent of your blood. Vaun doesn’t mention that, that you have intoxicating blood. Like every human being engineered to feed his kind alone, there is a natural instinct in him to spill all that bright, good-smelling blood and tear your damn head off in the process. 

It wouldn’t do to mention it, it wouldn’t do to romanticize the animal in him. So he mumbles back that _you’re beautiful_  and leaves it at that. Your smile is a summer morning, languid and searing. 

“I want more.” he hears you say and his wrists are promptly released. They stay pressed to the wall out of habit as you tug at the zipper of his armour. Your hands send a chill through him, a soft sound escaping him. His eye closes, just for a a moment and his head stays tilted up. 

Your touch is feather-light, careful not to choke or to harm. When the world is safe, when humans outnumber strigoi again he plans to ensure you never have to take your hands off him again. 

Those cold lips return to his skin and his eyes close involuntarily. At least you’re the one distracted now, unable to see how strong his reaction truly is. He is vulnerable, shivering under you.

Your hands grab at his chest, touching where you can and looping around his waist. Blunt, human teeth, barely threatening scrap the side of his neck. With a rattle, his stinger emerges from under his tongue. 

It’s less than a moment before you’re looking up at him. There is an unspoken apology in your eyes, a softness there that erodes the white tangle of muscle beating capillary worms through the white. 

You look at him with your dilated pupils, loosening your grip. His reaction is more forceful than he intends it to be, pushing himself forward from the wall and towards you. His insistence for closeness catches you off-guard but does not disturb. You place your hands on his cheeks, your head tilting like his.

A soft kiss is placed to the stinger partially emerging from his mouth. You smile at him and it could give Vaun whiplash. How many times haas he induced a flight instinct in beautiful women like you? How are you not overcome with the urge to run? Your boots are laced tightly, you could get a good distance away. 

But no, you stay and let him needily press his chest against yours. He asks without asking for you to hold him tightly again, you graciously oblige. Vaun is bolder with asking for what he wants now, he’s sequestered in a loveless existence for too long. 

His stinger disappears, leaving only his mouth for you to kiss at. If he could identify this as something, he supposes it would be happiness. His tendency is to downplay his experiences, to hide from you and the world just how deeply he feels. 

This isn’t love, and if it is then that’s the more terrifying option. Vaun doesn’t entertain, cannot entertain the idea that he is in love with you. But when he looks down at your amused expression, when he sees how it is in your nature to be very generous to him the idea that you are in love with him feels plausible. It drives a sharp object between his ribs and forces him to consider that, perhaps, he is not leading you down some dark and twisted path.

Perhaps you see love too when you look at him. Perhaps you see what he can’t say. The thought scares him and calms him. You’ve proven to be devastatingly talented at coaxing from him every feeling imaginable. He can occupy your mind with his voice, he can flood your senses with only his words and you still manage to catch him off guard. 

He can’t hear you now, he’s too busy sighing as you sigh for him.

They’re running late already, it might encourage suspicion. But let the others come looking for them, he almost delights in the idea. The clashing emotions threaten to topple him, he wants the remains of this ramshackle group to know just how fond of him you are. A more prominent part of him rejects the idea wholeheartedly. 

He is wholly yours the way you are wholly his, the sinking feeling in his abdomen betrays how he really feels. Fantasies are fine, but he would rather this remain undiscovered. So much is holy, little is sacred but this— the way your lips touch his and explore with that burgeoning curiosity is very deeply sacred to him. Vaun wants to keep it that way. 

So he ends the indulgence. He puts his hands on your shoulders and applies just enough pressure to notify you of this shift in want. It isn’t wholly truthful, he would like nothing more than to stay here forever until his back is one with the wall and your flesh is his flesh. 

“That’s enough.” he says when there is an inch of distance between the two of you. Your face falls only slightly and that crushes him enough, but it soon brightens. 

“Fine, but I want to continue our lessons later.” he blinks, momentarily confused before turning the the unfortunate strigoi on the ground. Right, _lessons_. 

“As you wish,” he replies. His hands haven’t left you yet, nor have you stepped away. “but now is out of the question. You wouldn’t want Quinlan—”

You cut him off with a giggle, a beautiful sound and a shake of your head. 

“No. No, I don’t. I can’t imagine what he’d say.” you say.

“I don’t imagine he would say much,” Vaun replies, your amusement colouring his mood. He was fully ready to sink into melancholy at the prospective loss of closeness to you. You step away and guide him from the wall. He follows like a moth about to be engulfed in flame.

“No,” you agree. “he’d likely just scoff and glare.” you help with the disposal of the body. Vaun watches carefully for worms and brushes one off your shoulder before it can get too close. “Besides,” you say when the corpse is on fire, capable of harming none. “I like you being _my_ little secret.”

If he had blood still, the tone of your voice might surely put it to use. As it stands, there is nothing, no physical reaction beyond the smile that touches his mouth. You reach for his hand, your intent clearly being to join the rest of the group.

“Just the way that I am most definitely your little secret, too.” you finish. He takes your hand. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t have to. You’re right as you invariably are. 


End file.
